Paralyzed Force
by Stand In Girl
Summary: The thing Tony was grappling for, the thing he wanted to remember so desperately takes the shape of a tiny woman in loose cotton clothing. She locks into his head like his old personality returning to itself, fitting in with the synapses and neurons until it seems impossible that she ever left. Victor/Sierra.


_Title_: Paralyzed Force  
_Summary_: The thing Tony was grappling for, the thing he wanted to remember so desperately takes the shape of a tiny woman in loose cotton clothing. She locks into his head like his old personality returning to itself, fitting in with the synapses and neurons until it seems impossible that she ever left.  
_Pairing:_ Tony/Sierra, Sierra/Victor, Tony/Priya, Victor/Priya and every imprint with every other imprint that either of them has ever had.  
Setting: Right before _Stop-Loss_, when Tony's just been given back his personality.  
_Disclaimer_: Man, I wish I had come up with this love story. Joss is king.

* * *

_"Shape without form, shade without colour,_  
_Paralyzed force, gesture without motion..."  
_

* * *

The first thing Tony sees is light.

He thinks it's green, but soft, like the blanket his grandmother knit him before arthritis twisted her fingers away from her knitting needles. Then it shifts, fades out and fades in until it's a bright, clear blue.

His eyes open and the scientist he remembers from a moment ago – the one with shaggy hair and the habit of dragging out and up his vowels – is standing three feet to the left.

"Hey there, handsome," Shaggy says, hands held out with palms facing upward. "What was the last thing I said to you?"

Tony's brain is slow, foggy, and the memories come slowly like driftwood floating up to the surface. He knows the last thing he remembers – Shaggy standing three feet to the right and saying that five years would feel like five seconds. Tony says so, but even as he's speaking, something pulls at his thoughts like a fishing hook. That's the last thing he remembers, he's sure of it, and yet... there's something else. Something new but ubiquitous, like it's soaked into the entirety of his brain matter. He can't separate himself from the new presence in his head. He doesn't want to try.

"You're free," Shaggy – Topher, Tony remembers now, though he's still not sure how that's a name – is saying. "You get your life back, soldier. Minus the PTSD, because we like you so much."

Topher goes through more details, and Tony's been through enough end-of-deployment talks to know this is a rehearsed speech. Phony, meant for anyone unfortunate enough to be sitting in this chair. God, how he hates this chair. He stands suddenly, and Topher's memory stutters.

"I'm missing something," Tony says. He doesn't think about saying it, doesn't analyze the need, just knows it's true. "You've taken something. I can't remember, but I need to remember."

Topher and the pretty Asian woman exchange a look so quick he almost misses it, but Tony knows something was communicated in that brief second. He knows he's right.

"We had to adjust your brain to deal with the PTSD," Topher says, slowly, like he's explaining death to a child. "I have a light hand, my friend, so I guarantee your brain is fine. It just might feel... tight, like new shoes. It'll stretch out soon."

"It's not that," Tony says, and he reaches for his head, which does feel compressed. It's like a word he can't remember, a melody he can't place - there's something lurking out there in the black space between his conscious thought and his unlimited, sleeping brain. "I—it's something about—dinner."

"Dinner," Topher says, a downward slope to the word that says time is being wasted. "You've forgotten your favorite meal. Don't worry, it'll come back to you. Now, no offense, but we really need to move this process along. Our head of security is waiting to speak with you."

"Right," Tony says. Whatever he's forgotten, he knows he's run out of time. "Well, I would love to get out of here."'

"Then we'll go ahead—"

There's a resounding crash and screech from the other room, like when a huge metal bowl is dropped in the center of a kitchen.

"What the—!" Topher cries, and then, to Tony: "Stay _right here_, understand?"

Topher bolts out of the room with a cry of "Ivy!" and the Asian woman jumps and follows him through the door.

"Great," Tony says, linking his fingers together. This room raises goosebumps on his arms, and the chair makes his gut clench. This chair is the hub of everything. It wiped his personality away and made him an empty, open clam. It put personalities into him and took those away, too. He holds out his hand, maybe to touch it, maybe to see if he can feel the power emanating off of it, when the sudden noise of bare feet on hardwood floors makes him jump.

He turns—and his mind wipes as blank as Topher's chair can render it.

The thing he was grappling for, the thing he wanted to remember so desperately takes the shape of a tiny woman in loose cotton clothing. She locks into his head like his old personality returning to itself, fitting in with the synapses and neurons until it seems impossible that she ever left. _Oh_, his soul says. _There you are_.

"Victor, it's time for dinner," the doll—his _girl_— tells him, and her face is terrible: so blank. There is no human emotion to temper the trust on her face, no sense of self-preservation. She knows he will come because he has always come to her, and he knows this past the point of consciously knowing. Memories, he is learning, mean nothing.

He does consciously know that this isn't allowed, that his minutes are precious few. Still, he walks to her, hand outstretched. His fingers find her sharp cheek, and she smiles.

"I know you," he says.

"You always know me," she answers, matching the quiet set of his voice. "No matter who they make you, you always know me."

"You're perfect," he says, and God, but she is. She's stunning, with the highest cheekbones he's ever seen and hair that falls like autumn leaves, and he can't believe she could really be his.

"I try to be my best," she answers.

He doesn't think about it, doesn't stop to assess the consequences – he angles his head down and kisses her. Her lips don't react, but her hands grip lightly at his arms. She is smiling when he pulls back.

"You've never done that before," she says.

"I'm sorry," he says, but her hands are still resting at his elbows.

"Will you do it again?"

Oh, how he wants to. Leaving this place feels like leaving prison. He's acutely and painfully aware of how long it's been since he, Tony—not Victor or any of the other personalities but _Tony_—has made love to a woman. Or perhaps it's not a blanket carnal yearning but a very specific one, triggered only by the perfection still connected to him through touch.

But she's a child. A shell awaiting the return of her consciousness, and with that, her ability to choose. He has no right to this body, and it has no understanding of what a kiss can mean.

His hand lands on her face again, gentle, protective. He doesn't know how he can leave her now.

"You have to go, Sierra."

A woman – gorgeous and dark-haired, like someone out of the magazines Tony received in Afghanistan from his friends back home – is speaking at the doorway. She's dressed like a doll, but when she meets his eyes, he knows she's not a doll. He can see it in the way her face tightens and her hands clench. There's recognition in her eyes, and the way they crease at the corners seems like sadness. She looks like the others, but she's not like the others – she's not empty.

"You have to let her go," she says. "Victor, you have to. They can't know this still exists. They can't know."

"What are you talking about?" He says. His girl, Sierra, bunches up the fabric of his shirt.

"They try to take it away from you," says the doll who isn't a doll. "Every time, they try. They cut it out, but it grows back. They can't know you love her as yourself."

"I love her," he tests the words, weighs them on his tongue. He looks at Sierra. "I love you. How? I don't know you."

"We aren't what they think of us," the not-doll says, while Sierra smiles her simple smile. "We're lost, but we're not gone."

"Is it the same for her?" he asks, his voice going rough at the edges. He looks into Sierra's eyes, tries hard to see something there, but they're blank as marbles. "When she's herself. Does she love me?"

"She does."

Tony pulls himself from Sierra's light fingers and turns around. He wants to formulate a lie, realizes instinctively he's in very dangerous territory, but he doesn't know enough about this world. Topher steps farther into the room, eyes over Tony's shoulder.

"Her name is Priya, and she asked me the same questions you're asking now," Topher says. Then, to the brunette not-doll, "Echo, you should have told me. You risked the whole internal mainframe."

"He had to say goodbye. Victor didn't understand, but he does," Echo nods her head in Tony's direction.

"Goodbye," Tony repeats, eyes on Sierra—Priya—again. "I can't. I can't leave her here."

"You have no choice," Topher answers. "You're lucky you've had this long. Boyd is waiting for you, and your escorts are coming."

"Will we have dinner, Victor? It's time for dinner," Sierra pulls at the edge of his sleeve, and her flat voice does nothing to hide that she's anxious. Some understanding, then. Maybe more than anybody realizes.

"I'm not coming to dinner, Sierra. I have to leave now."

"But you'll come back. You always come back."

"I—" He's trapped. He can't come back; the people running this place will not be controlled by anyone. Except, perhaps, by the not-doll who arranged their goodbye in the first place. But Tony himself can't stop them. He can't get them to release her, and he can't take her from here on his own. And even if he could smuggle her away—and even if Sierra is the basic fabric that builds up to Priya—she's still missing herself. Anything he did with her would be against the will she doesn't have.

Echo comes to them, places her hand on Sierra's arm and pulls her away. Sierra goes with her, docile and compliant as a lamb.

"I'll protect her," Echo says. "I protected her before you knew how. I'll make sure she gets back to you."

"I'm sad," Sierra says, shaking Echo off and reclaiming the ground she lost. She taps Tony's forehead, then slides her fingers down to his cheek. "I'm sad for you. You're not ready to be alone. It's still in here."

"Hey," Topher interjects. "Don't insult me. His brain's fine. Took care of all the crazies—not that you understand anything I'm saying."

"Crazy," Sierra repeats. Her hand slides farther, the pads of her fingers brushing over his lips. They trace the outline of his bottom one. "_Not_ crazy. Sad. Remembering."

Tony tries to understand what she's saying, but before he can draw any solid conclusions, she raises herself up and brings her lips to his. It's soft as a spider web and delicate like that, too—easy to pull apart. His instinct is to reach for her, grab her shoulders and yank her closer, but _she's a doll she's a doll she's a doll she's_—

She rocks back on her heels and smiles, unaware of the chaos she inspired in him.

"Oh, God," Topher says, and Tony hears him only very distantly. "I'm not seeing this, I'm not seeing this, I'm _not seeing this_..."

"Sierra," Echo says, her voice sharp. "Come, now."

"I'll see you again soon," Sierra says to him. He doesn't answer, and the roaring in his ears continues as Echo leads his beating heart away from him.

"Hell," he says after they've disappeared from view.

"No, the Dollhouse. A pretty common mistake, actually." A pause, and then Topher's off again. "Listen, her case is complicated. I'm not saying to forget her because—let's face it, you can't if I tried—but find something else. Don't try to look for her, man. Stirring up this place will only lead to a whole lot of badness, for you and for her."

Tony hears the warning, but it bounces right through like he's still mindless Victor. Of course he won't find something else. There is nothing else. He looks out over the Dollhouse and sees her sitting alone at one of the dinner tables. He thinks of rushing down the stairs, of trying to take her anyway. He'll never betray her, never touch her without the consent of Priya, but at least her body would be safe. At least he could protect it—Sierra—and they couldn't make her into sexy secretary for whoever can pay enough.

Then he sees Echo. He watches Echo prepare two plates of food and bring one back to his girl_. I'll take care of her_, she said. The tension in his chest eases, because somehow, he knows that's true. He knows that Echo will be the one taking care of all of them in the end.

"It's almost showtime," Topher is saying. "Listen, don't mention this to anyone. Seriously. If they know it's anything other than grouping—"

"Grouping," Tony interrupts. "Like animals."

"Save the righteous indignation and _listen_. This is important, soldier guy."

"Fine," Tony says. He can hear the footsteps of the men coming to escort him to the head of security, and he turns his back on the huge bay windows. "Priya who?"

* * *

_Feedback is love. Thanks for reading!_


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